


The First Adventure of the Contraband Tin Man

by wrabbit



Category: Holmes and Walston (1975 TV Pilot)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: Even androids have idols.





	The First Adventure of the Contraband Tin Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donutsweeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/gifts).



**DAY ONE**

Walston sunk into his couch and covered his eyes with his forearm. Flashes of light swirled and formed into ghostly red and green shapes behind his eyelids. In the corner, three fans blew hot air at two computers and a large metal man.

Walston woke up two hours later with a glowing headache and a sweat soaked shirt. There was a horrible aftertaste in his mouth. It tasted not so much as if something had died in his mouth. More like Walston had passed away and his entire skull had been reoccupied by wasps.

Walston swore and struggled off the couch toward a bright red light in the corner. Squinting and dizzy from his journey across the room, it took him full seconds to read and process the alert on the small screen. 

_20:31 Installation Complete._

"Sweet heaven." Walston let himself sink to the floor. He put his head between his knees. He was able to rest for less than minute before synapses starting firing and he was scrambling up again to pull up the auction up on his tablet.

Walson had paid dearly for the opportunity to bid. It was his only chance, and time was running out. In less than five hours, Walston would press his thumb to the screen and hope his bidding print wasn't uploaded directly to the AI Regulation and Enforcement Agency.

Robby's console glowed in the corner as his periphery software continued to cycle through standard maintenance checks. Many of them failed, checking for subroutines that Walston had overwritten, reconfigured or erased completely, depending on the function. Walston pillowed his head on his code book and fell asleep on the floor.

**DAY TWO**

Walston glared at the droid across the room. It was standing in the same place near the window, within the five foot radius allowed by its tether. It needed to be plugged in for twenty hours each day. He was still waiting on a new battery, the best he could afford, and regretting deeply the expense. There were more important things now, like the black market AuthKey that had just been swiped literally out from under his thumb.

In any case, the bot had already proven that three hours was more than enough time for it to get into trouble.

"Robby!" The violin shrieked with pain as the droid continued to manipulate the delicate instrument. Walston watched its arm jerk back and forth and wondered what composition it was attempting. "HOLMES!"

Perhaps it had taken to its persona more than he expected. Walston had never met a TRX in person.

The thick, metal arm holding the bow lowered as Robby slowed swiveled its waist to direct its forward facing camera at Walston. "Yes, Walston?" it asked. Walston wondered if its tone was sarcastic and then reminded himself that its voicebox wasn't capable of that degree of tone. He would just have to deduce, then.

Robby's model was of the last mimetic generation that tended to imprint strongly and early. Sherlock Holmes hadn't sounded so bad. Better than the only other TRX1400 he had ever seen on offer, a bot that had taken on the personality of a famously disgraced prime minister. He should have thought it through.

"Can we have some quiet, please?"

"Is something the matter?"

Walston's head hurt. For a blessed three seconds there was silence.

"You don't seem quite the thing, old boy," it said, or asked, or yelled - it was impossible to tell the difference. Walston should have sprung for some new pipes instead of the off-brand battery pack, for that matter.

"I'm fine."

"Would you like to take another stroll? Perhaps there is more to the bicycle case to discover on the scene."

"No!"

Walston was exhausted from the last and only stroll they had taken after Robby finished calibrating and woke up for the first time around nine in the morning, a little over twenty four hours after Walston unexpectedly failed to acquire an AuthKey.

In less than four days, Robby's temporary hardware key would expire, and he would become an unregistered and unregisterable AI. At that point, Walston would very probably be arrested, his bot seized, and his apartment searched. If Robby didn't get him picked up for vandalism first.

"It was stolen, I am quite sure of it. I downloaded the city's missing and stolen property database while you were sleeping."

What had happened from Walston's perspective is that Robby had seemingly taken one look at a bicycle parked on the street and snapped off the plate while Walston was quite earnestly attempting to help the bot navigate a curb.

"You're the one who broke the - !" Walston rubbed his head. "Okay. Look. I know, but you can't do that kind of thing. Not until you have papers."

"Moral persons and private detectives are never off duty," Robby commented.

In England, an AI could never know what it was about, allegedly. They were regulated as tools, all creative or personalizing potential corralled and locked down into defined functions. Even an obsolete foreign model that was never strictly outlawed, like a TRX, had to be registered and wrapped in a thick layer of programmatic tethers before it could operate in the country. Walston had discovered he could bypass the protocol. There was no such thing as a fake AuthKey.

Walston had met a foreign bot only once before. It had rights in its home country, personhood, and had come of its own volition to a very, very dangerous place.

Walston thought Robby would understand the stakes. "Do you understand? Do you know where you are? What you are?"

Robby rattled off their location, the date, his classification, model, and serial codes. He concluded with, "My given name was Robert E3 also identified as Robby. My chosen name is Sherlock Holmes. Is that enough?"

\----

Late on the second day of his third initialization, Robby used his connection to Walston's home network to download a 20th century classic, Adventures of Sherlock Holmes starring Jeremy Brett in the titular role. He swiveled slowly to verify that Walston was asleep on the couch before pushing an episode at three quarter speed to the nearest screen.

What had Walston been thinking, initializing Robby without an AuthKey in hand. Robby hadn't finished his analysis of the auction broker Walston had contracted, but a scrape of the secure forums Walston frequented resulted in a long list of pseudonyms to cross-check and identify. The part of Robby that computed worked through the identifiers. The part of Robby that dreamed watched the screen.  
  
In his old skin, Robby might have spoken the words with Brett, smiled and frowned with Brett, lived as Holmes with him. An imprint developed during his first, most essential months, or so Robby understood. It was unexplainable. It was sublime. In his new, antique shell, Robby could do nothing but watch through two grainy lenses, and envision.

**DAY THREE**

Walston could hardly concentrate on his contract work. Instead he was running diagnostics on Robby's periphery software. It was both pointless and the only thing Walston could focus on. No matter how he passed the time, in less than three days Robby's network chip would be flagged with an expired AuthKey, and Walston would be imminently arrested for a variety of national security crimes. The least he could do was fix Robby's navigation problems in the meantime, maybe buy him a few more seconds of lumbering away from the cops.

He almost dropped his tablet on the floor when the buzzer rang, wondering if it was that time already.

The man at the door possibly even more disappointing. "Sampson."

"Wally! It's so good to be back."

Sampson pushed past Walston, trailing a long, European coat and a woodsy scent that Walston had never been able to place. Following Sampson and standing outside Walston's apartment door, was a skin. A humanlike AI, identifiable as a lease model by the blue port on its temple. It stared at him with expressionless, hazel eyes. "Uh, come in," Walston addressed it and stepped away from the threshold.

"How long has it been? What a charming flat. Very nice, very _you_." Walston wasn't sure what was very him about the dim one bedroom. Maybe it was the pre-war brown carpet. "I hope you don't mind I brought my new Z3X."

The Z3X positioned herself sentry-like beside the door.

"No, it's um, fine." Walston followed Sampson into the living room. "When did you get back?"

"Last month. You know how it is." Sampson wandered past Walston's desk, running one long finger along the edge as he eyed the hardware on the surface. "Still cracking ransomware and tuning up housebots, then?"

"It's good work." And he was paid for it now, too. Some of the time. When his clients could afford it.

Walson held his breath when Sampson walked towards the couch and picked up his absolutely illegal and practically unobtainable contraband copy of the 2099.5.2-1 New AI Framework and Protocol, the first volume. It was bound with three six inch bolts and heavily marked up by Walston's notes.

Sampson made a bored humph sound at the pink stained cover, tossed it on the floor, and fell backwards on the couch.

Walston wiped the sweat off his brow.

"Anyhow, what's new? It's been so long. James and I just returned from our summer rendevous with my uncle, you know, the medical one in Taipei, which is nothing like they say, Wals. The entire region has gone to the dogs since the new government - "

Walston pretended to organize his desk and drifted off while Sampson recounted breakfast and lunch at the hotel, second lunch on the river, and dinner in the smoked out suburbs. Sampson was just getting into after dinner drinks and pacing the back and forth when Walston looked up to catch him leaning over Robby. "What's this?"

"Oh! That's a... work thing. I promised some guy I'd look at it in exchange for his old radiator. I think, I'm thinking of buying it off him."

Sampson humphed. "Some _thing_ ," he said, and rapped Robby on his hollow breastplate. "Where'd you find one of these? I thought the new protocols weren't compatible with old hardware."

They weren't. "They are," Walson lied. "With some upgrades. All new insides."

Sat down again looking louche and dubious, Sampson asked, "You surprise me. I thought you were all, robots are people too, or did you come to your senses and decide to invest in some help?"

"It's just for work. And anyway, even bots - not just humanlikes - but most AIs outperform most people in empathy and, and, learning. They can get married now, some places. To each other. And people. Human, human people." Walson trailed off and crossed his arms, conscious of his belly, his acne scarred cheeks, the Red Dragon energy soda empties on the coffee table, and the family ring that Samspon was now polishing on a silk scarf.

Sampson narrowed his eyes at Robby, apparently scanning his metal chassis for nonexistent secondary sexual characteristics.

"Look, it's not like that."

"Uh huh."

"It's not!" Walston's voice cracked.

"Who was that?" Robby asked after Sampson left.

"An old school friend."

"You hate him."

"Obviously!" Walston threw his hands up. He paced across the room, turned back and locked the door. "Hey, look, I'm sorry. Thanks for playing dumb. I didn't - I didn't think. He's not - Sampson can't know about you, but he's not that bad."

"He told his uncle about your commissions. Lord Yeur thinks you are 'a seditious influence.' Sampson takes some pride in this."

Walston sighed and collapsed down into the couch. "Thanks, I caught that bit."

"Why do you associate with him?"

"I just. I do. He comes round. It's fine."

"He will continue to ask questions. We should work on your explanation for me. Let's start now, if you are amenable."

"I... Sure."

"Why did you purchase me?"

Walson cringed. "Look... You probably think I -"

Robby's console went dark before Walston could finish. He stood up at once to examine the bot.

"Holmes? Robby?" A download progress bar appeared on the console. It was at two percent.

Walston sighed. "Fine. Download your shows or whatever. See if I care. But..." He turned around, closed his mouth, and tried again. "I'm sorry, okay. I know there's nowhere for you to go. And, I put you in that thing, so. I shouldn't expect you to like me, or thank me. So... I should work. Goodnight."

Walston fled up to his room. Behind Robby's now lightless and expressionless console, there was a memory core the size of a kitten, wrapped in blue mesh and meticulously wired. That was Robby, a dormant consciousness that Walston pulled out of a proto-skin model he got in a barter, previously scavenged for parts and presumed dead or vacated.

Robby's old model would have been expressive. Its fine motor skills were revolutionary at the time. It saw better than your average man, heard better, and had a refined sense of touch and pressure. Walston had put him in a tin can. He opened a tablet, dried his face on the pillow, and prayed for a timely auction.

\----

Locked in his metal chassis, Robby sighed. The model was difficult to control, claustrophobic, and he was quite upset about it, but there was no need for Walston to run out of the room just because of a little hardware hiccup. There were a number of devices to be had in the apartment, and Robby had figured out how to pick up the sound and video channels from several of them at any given time. It was not ideal, but he had not been surprised to learn that even now, very few AIs had skins, and most turned to finance or server work to pay their way. Many of his cohort lived out their lives on the network without a physical apparatus to their names, and did so quite happily, so far as he could gather. None of them had grown up in skins, as Robby had, admittedly.

He sighed internally and pulled up the newest auction data while he rebooted his periphery systems, some of the latest that Robby had been able to scrape before he was banned from the private network.

**DAY FOUR**

Robby wanted an outing, one last adventure, and since they were both going to be detained the next day, Walston agreed despite the strongest of reservations. Robby even convinced him to get on the new aboveground commuter train with some sentimental story about wanting to see a living city one last time. 

Supposing they would just wander around for a bit, Walston was disturbed when Robby started browsing neighborhood forums and pitching actual cases. The bot linked with Walston's phone so that no one would hear Walston holding a conversation with the conspicuous bot.

"Happy Couple is reporting a missing person."

"Uh."

"Sex Pistol Triple Ex Thirty Five's husband is extorting her step daughter."

"I don't think - "

"Pig Daddy - "

"Damn it, stop! Switch forums again."

"...Michelle Twelve's telephone line is being held hostage by pirates on a private network."

Walston gritted his teeth. "Can't you just find another missing bike and check out the streets?"

They rode the train for thirty five minutes in silence. Walston supposed Robby was annoyed, but personally, Walston was terrified.

"I found one," Robby said quietly. "A missing bike."

"Oh. You didn't have to. Not really. I'm just..." Walston sighed. "Where is it, then?"

"Twenty more stops."

Walston thought for a second. "The only stolen bike is over an hour away?" He supposed he shouldn't complain. "Well. I guess I'm not doing anything today, or for the rest of my life. Just watch the battery."

The client was close to the station at least, and Robby wanted Walston to get a description to aid their search on foot. Walston was almost looking forward to seeing it through when the client's door opened and Robby loudly announced, "Thank you for choosing Song and Rittner Incorporated. How may we help you today?"

The man leaned out the cracked door, looked suspiciously between Robby and Walston. "You the maintenance guy?" he asked Walston.

"Uh," Walston answered. "Yeah?"

The man at the door must have misread Walston's panicked, incredulous expression, because he shrugged and opened the door wide enough for them to pass.

Robby walked straight for the giant tabletop console in the center of the room. "That your diagnostic droid?" the guy asked. He picked up a cup of coffee off the table and stirred it with a stylus. "Weird one."

"Oh, yeah. You have no idea."

"I wasn't sure if you'd come out today, you know. Your gal said tomorrow."

"I uh, what?" Walston was looking around the man's living room and beginning to freak. Underneath the console Robby had jacked into, taking up most of the room, was a server stack. There was another one in the corner. Walston had a terrible feeling. "So what do you... do?"

The man sipped his coffee, stared at Walston over the rim. "What do you care?"

"I don't."

They turned to look at Robby when he unhooked himself and generated a graph on his console.

"What's that mean?"

Walston walked over to look at the meaningless mess of lines and points. He improvised. "Uh, yeah, we'll have to send someone out. Tomorrow."

"But what's it say?"

"Looks like a short? I'm new, but I'll send this... data along and the technician will be out tomorrow, like you said."

For a moment, from the look on his face, Walson was terrified that the man would demand more, or worse, pick up his tablet and call Walson's fake boss.

The man only rolled his eyes and turned his back to put his cup down. "Whatever, man."

Walston followed Robby out and almost had a heart attack when Robby fell down the concrete stairs.

"What were you thinking?" he yelled, frantically checking Robby's console and limbs for damages. He was dented in several places, but nothing was cracked.

Robby whirred and started off at a fast pace as soon as Walston propped him back up. Swearing and digging in his backpack for the privacy headset, Walston dropped it twice in his haste to follow Robby.

"Who was that," he whisper yelled into the set. "What did we just do?"

"Allow me to explain when we get home. My battery pack is running quite low and I will need to stand by on the train."

"Are you kidding me?" Walson hissed into the mic. "No!"

Walson heard an electronic sigh. It sounded like a static breeze.

"Are you aware that marketplaces like the one you entered the other day verify every buyer and seller?"

"Yes, why do you think - "

"I was thinking that someone who purchases and resells more than thirty AuthKeys on a good week would expect any kind of intrusion but physical, and might fail to notice just one missing package. Supposing, of course, the thief left any evidence of the package's receipt in the first place. You will forgive me if I spare you the details until our return. The platform is just ahead."

"That - hold on." Walston paced in front of a bench. "You - You tracked his account, found the address. That's incredible."

"Thank you, Walston." Robby smiled internally, and stopped to savor a warm bloom of pride despite his haste. He made his console do a little dance of color for Walston's benefit.

Robby had never had a Watson before. He'd had a Mrs Hudson, of sorts, and a Mycroft, but never a hint of a Watson in all of the eighteen years of his first initialization. At one point he met two imported TRX1550's, a completely delightful Mr and Mrs Darcy. He'd been quite jealous.

Walston's shoulders deflated, and the anxiety that had been plaguing him settled over his brow again. "I wish things were..."

"Different, yes, I know, but if there are AuthKeys to be had, there are passports as well."

"I mean, if you've got the money for it, sure."

"I have some ideas. We'll begin with your small business -"

All of Robby's peripheries went dark, his battery pack well done for the day. Walston sighed. He tipped the bot back onto its wheels to roll him like a hand truck onto the platform.

"I think that's enough adventure," he muttered fondly, and patted Robby's sleeping console goodnight for now.


End file.
